


Alexander Pushkin is dead. Undead, undead, undead.

by AliceMarylin1999



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley in Denial (Good Omens), Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Demons, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Poetry, Regency, Romance, Slow Burn, Soul Selling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-02-01 01:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21314065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceMarylin1999/pseuds/AliceMarylin1999
Summary: Based on the poem "Angel" by a great Russian poet Alexander Puskin (1799-1837) which strangely depicts our two ineffable husbands.Crowley meets Pushkin, who wants to trade his soul to Satan, so his talent won't run dry. Drunk Crowley tells him about his love for the angel and leaves.When the poet dies, Aziraphale hears this poem and starts suspecting some feelings on behalf of our favourite demon.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	Alexander Pushkin is dead. Undead, undead, undead.

1826

The ball at madam Eletskaya was all Alexander desired after a long exile from Petersburg, as ordinary as it was. It was so delightful to be drinking, dancing with pretty young ladies, telling jokes, not having to go from room to room in boredom. He was enjoying himself and was just about to approach a young and quite seductive countess when he felt someone grabbing on his elbow harshly.

“Alexsssssander Pusssshkin, the greatest Russssian poet who ever lived”, he heard a soft hissing near his ear, before he turned over in terror, and saw a tall young man with fiery-red hair in dark round glasses.

“Ex-c-suse-moi?”

“No English? Bad. Я могу говорить и по-русски (_I_ _can_ _speak_ _Russian_ _too_). But I’d prefer English”, the man said, barely opening his lips.

“English is fine”, Alexander said, still scared. “Pray, tell me w-who…”

“Crowley. You may call me monsieur Crowley if that’s what ta Maman taught you. Or your nanny, I heard a lot about your nanny. Doesn’t matter. I am here on a request from my, well, employer. You do recollect something about the soul-renting contract, I hope, do you?”

Alexander went pale.

“I didn’t know it would actually work, but, monsieur…”

“It did. But if I do my job correctly you will abandon your folly. Now, we need to speak. Somewhere more private. I’d very much appreciate if you took me to your house"

"Of course, monsieur Crowley, only could you wait just a..."

"No. You've got all the time in the world to fornicate, trust me, monsieur Pushkin"

"Pray, call me Sasha"

"Very lovely, Sasha. I'll be smoking outside. I don't like the cold, so I expect a couch as soon as I finish my pipe"

The man left the hall.

As Alexander and monsieur Crowley arrived at home, a servant greeted them. Monsieur Crowley gave a servant his long fur coat and soon found a sofa to lay on, strangely putting his angular limbs all over. He didn’t take his dark glasses off.

"I like your place. Quite warm", he said, sounding unimpressed. "Lock the door"

Alexander obeyed.

"Now", monsieur Crowley stood up, " Do you have a slightest idea, young man, what you're putting yourself into, demanding demonic forces at your side?". He kept pacing around Alexander angrily. "Have you read the Bible, boy?"

"Of course, I did!", Alexander exclaimed. "I had Jesuits teaching in my Lyceum, and I was quite good at..."

"You were good at nothing but drinking, seducing servant girls and writing some of the finest poetry Russia, or even world has ever known"

"That's it, monsieur Crowley", Alexander said spitefully. "That's my problem. These were the things I used to be good at. Now it's just drinking. Since I lost my Muse, even women no longer..."

"Muse!", monsieur Crowley scoffed, "I'm a demon, young punk! I know all you need to know about those kinds of things. You had your fair share of glory, it should be enough for any mortal"

"Not for me, monsieur. I need to write. I need to write more. I can't live without poetry"

"Surely you can. You've got no idea what you can live without. This folly will come at a price you don't even realize yet. I am a demon and this is my job to make you do this, and yet I tell you - call it off. I'll take it upon myself. You're way too young to ruin your life like that"

"I'm twenty-six", Alexander said bitterly. " If I'm too young for something, that's a failure I'm too young for. I'm ready, monsieur Crowley, and whatever you say..."

“Shut. Up. Close your mouth, and listen. You don’t know the first thing about what you’re going to do. You don’t know Him. I do. I knew Him since when we were both angels. Do you really think you’re smarter than He is? That He’s not going to take much, much more than you’re willing to give Him? You don’t even know what He’s going to take from you, for you don’t have it yet!

You’ll be different, you’ll be happier, you’ll find something you never hoped to find. Your life will change. And you in your stupidity will start to believe you somehow deserved it. That’s what He does, you poor fool. You’ll be in Heaven, for a while. Quite a long while. Before He takes it all from you. Before He throws you in the deepest pit of sorrow and despair. Oh, He loves doing that to you, humans. It is His revenge for what God did to Him. God loves you lot more than She ever loved us. And He can’t forget that. I know it, so listen to me, you idiot, listen to me and stop this madness”

“What have you been doing all this time, monsieur Crowley”, Alexander suddenly asked. “Can’t be just the contracts”

“Many things. Things you won’t live long enough to…”

  
“Stop it for a while, monsieur. Let us talk like gentlemen, and who knows, what if I change my mind?”

Monsieur Crowley frowned under his shades.

“I need more ch-shhhhampagne”, he hissed.

“Zakhar!”, Alexander shouted to a servant, who came in immediately. “Принеси нам лучшего шампанского, какое есть. И водочки тоже, пожалуйста. (_“Bring me the finest bottle of champagne that we have. And… And, I suppose, some vodka as well”.)_

When the servant came back with the drinks, monsieur Crowley took the bottle in his hand and poured himself a full glass. He drank it in one go, before pouring another.

“You seem to be drinking quite a lot, monsieur”, Alexander said, ironically.

“I’ve got more time than you. A lot of people have more time than you, you know”, Crowley answered gloomily. “So. What is it that you want to know?”

“Have you loved, monsieur? You’re a demon, but once you were an angel. Have you ever known true love?”

The question seemed to anger Crowley.

“I have. And from what I see before me, you haven’t, young man”  
“You’re wrong”

“I rarely am. I wasn’t wrong about the first of your kind, anyway”, Crowley said with a scoff.

“Adam? You saw the origin of the sin?”, Alexander asked, sounding astonished and non-believing.

"I saw Man fall from grace”, Crowley said gloomily. “But first one to fall was Woman"

"You tempted Eve!”, Alexander sighed. “You can't be telling truth, monsieur Crowley!"

"Well, strangely enough, I am”, Crowley went on, with a dark smile. “But monsieur Crowley did no such thing. It was Crawly, not a monsieur, or mister, or madam, for that matter. Just a serpent, wily and black"

"So, I have you to blame for the original sin?"

"Blame your own stupidity. At least Eve did it for the noblest reason, for knowledge and wisdom. You, dear Sasha, wish to trade your immortality for a couple of relatively good poems, which no one can guarantee you will write anyway, still... You can blame me if you wish. The Tempter, some call me. Fools."

"And you saw it? Adam and Eve fleeing the Garden?"

Crowley’s face grew sad underneath dark glasses.

"I did. And I did not"

"Pray, tell me what it means?"

"Means I was looking elsewhere"

"Where?"

Crowley sighed.

"If you want to hear it, I need stronger motivation than champagne"

Alexander took a nice crystal decanter and poured Crowley a big glass of vodka. Crowley descended on a sofa, stretching his legs, and put away his glasses. He looked exhausted. He then took a glass, took a sip, and closed his eyes with his fingers.

"I saw an angel at the gates. I crawled by his side, out of curiosity, wishing to know what my divine former brother in arms thought of the whole affair. So, I crawled. Then rose to the shape of a man I am now. Only with my wings still present. And we spoke, as those two were running away"

A shadow clouded monsieur Crowley’s face. Alexander was staring at him with curiosity and disbelief.

"And what was the angel like? Divinely beautiful, I take it?"

"Not really. Fair-haired, curly. A bit plump. White skin, pink lips, nice smile. A perfectly normal angel. Only one thing was amiss. He lacked a flaming sword he used to have. And so, Crawly asked him where in Hell that sword was".

Crowley's voice seemed to tremble a bit. He went on shortly after.

" The angel looked away and told me he gave it away to Adam"

"The same angel who cast them away?"

"He had to cast them away. He didn't have to give away the sword. He rebelled. Put himself in the danger of falling. All for the same people I put in this misery in the first place... He told me he pitied them. Told me there were terrible beasts outside. Told me the woman was pregnant. You do know, Sasha, who she was carrying?"

"Cain"

"Yes. The first murderer. The brother-slayer. I made Man and Woman fall. And then I saw the angel who traded his loyalty to God for their well-being. So yes, I was there when the first humans escaped the Garden. But I wasn't looking at them. I wasn't". Crowley sighed. "Then the rain started, the first rain ever. And he covered me with his wing. His snow-white wing"

"What is his name?"

"Aziraphale", Crowley said in a low voice, as if every sound was painful. " Aziraphale is his name. Crawly was mine. I changed it to Crowley, wishing to be more of a black-winged bird than a snake. Yet I still seem to crawl around, waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and waiting. Though it seems to me at times that I'm no longer the predator, no longer the tempter. What am I now, since then - only God knows, but won't tell me"

"Do you know where is he now?"

"Why, I know it always. We became friends"

"Can't be”, Alexander exclaimed. “An angel and a demon can never be friends"

"A lot of things that can't be, apparently can. For one thing, angel and I became friends. Another thing was that I could never feel love ever since being cast away. And yet... And yet look at me"

Alexander was silent.

"If what you're telling is true, then it's the greatest tragedy the world has known”, he finally said. “You're damned and he's blessed. I know my Bible very well, monsieur. It well may be that your love is your eternal damnation"

Crowley's mouth twitched.

"You'll soon forget about my misery and think no more than of your own if you won't give up your folly about the deal with Satan, young man. I can endure my pain, I'm well-equipped for that. You're a mere human. You'll be crushed like a bug"

"I made my mind, monsieur. I’ll sign the contract"

"The Hell with you, then. Sign the paper, show me to my chamber", Crowley said in irritation, rising from the sofa. He looked with great disgust, as the young poet signed his own death sentence. 

"Damned fool", he muttered, leaving his own signature with a little flame at the tip of his finger. 

"Welcome to the living Hell, dear Sasha”, he said with angry mockery. “Say goodbye to all that was dear to you and embrace the eternal dance of suffering and loss. Your first loss is my company. Where is my chamber?"

"Upstairs, monsieur"

"Fine. Have a bad sleep, young man"

"Monsieur?"

"Yes?", Crowley looked back from the door in annoyance.

" Does the angel know you love him?"

Monsieur Crowley looked confused for a second.

"Only an idiot wouldn't know by now. But this angel is the greatest idiot I've known. So, there's a hope that he still doesn't"

"What if loves you back?"

"Too bad for him, then. I pray he doesn't"

"You lie. You pray he does. It's written all over your face. You still believe he might love you back!"

"Look at you, so clever to read other people's faces, yet stupid enough to sell yourself to Satan”. Monsieur Crowley left the room and closed the door.

**

Back in London, Crowley read letters from the foolish Russian poet from time to time, as well as Russian magazines and prospects. He nearly forgot about his drunken confession, until one day, he saw a poem in a literary magazine from St-Petersburg:

At Eden’s gates an angel gentle

His head did bow with lustred hue,

And demon, dark and temperamental,

Above the fires of Hades flew

The wicked spirit of negation

Upon the other’s pureness gazed

And then a warm, unknown sensation

His conscience now for first time grazed”

“Forgive me, but I’ve seen you,” said he,

“So shining on me had its worth:

Not everything in heaven displeased me,

Nor did I hate it all on earth.” 

“Blasted, thrice-damned punk!”, Crowley cursed. “Who the Hell told him he’s allowed to blabber like that? Soon enough his beloved exile friends will translate this… Poem… To English, and some perfumed dandy boy will end up reading it to Aziraphale and he will start having questions”

Crowley made some phone calls that afternoon, drove to some places, and gave quite a few bribes. As long as his art of persuasion remained working, no one was going to sell any Pushkin or any Russian poetry translation to “Fell and Co” bookshop.

“Aziraphale is not curious about other countries except for Japan”, Crowley thought. “He became very British at that. No way he’s going to search for some poet from Russia, of all places”, he convinced himself.

Crowley was still angry when he remembered his encounter with Pushkin. First of all, why would a demon like him even talk about those things with a human he was supposed to seduce into selling his soul?

Secondly, he failed him. He wanted to make him change his mind and save him from his doom, but instead, he got drunk and sentimental.

Impulsively, Crowley tore the magazine apart, took his top hat and stormed out of his apartment. His feet brought him to Aziraphale’s bookshop, as usual. He looked at the door with a hint of despair, remembering Sasha’s words, about the eternal damnation, then cursed him once again in his head, and stepped in.

**

1837

It was the first thing that Crowley read that morning –famous Russian poet Alexander Pushkin died from the injury he received on the duel.

Thirty-seven years old, and a wife he adored, four children – legitimate children, anyway – the peak of his glory and so many books yet to be written. A stupid duel with a Frenchman for no particular reason at all ended his life in four days of agony, fever and festering wounds. He left his family inheritance of debts, luckily forgiven by the Emperor and a legacy of the greatest Russian writer of all time.

“I told him”, Crowley thought. “I warned him. I couldn’t make his mind for him, it’s not MY fault. It’s not”

But it felt like it was, for he left his signature on the damned contract.

Crowley had no time to brood, though. He promised Aziraphale to accompany him to some gentlemen’s club he found recently, and so he did, sheepishly, follow the angel there, though he was in no mood for jokes and chatter.

Aziraphale looked beautiful. He shaved off hideous sideburns he used to have a month before and was looking so gentle and delicate in his cream jacket and silk shirt and a narrow scarf around his neck. Crowley remembered what he told Pushkin when he met him in St. Petersburg, it made him sick with pain. “Poor bastard was the one who knew and could’ve taken my secret to the grave”, he thought. “Instead, he chose to tell the whole ever-loving world”

People talked, but all Crowley could see was Aziraphale, smiling a bit silly, so enthusiastic, so happy, so cheerful, so light and pure and angelic.

“I love you”, pulsed through Crowley’s head. “I know it can’t ever be. Forgive me, angel. There’s naught I can do. I love you, I love you, I love you – oh, I do, I do…”

It was a bit late when he knew something was wrong. He tore his eyes from Aziraphale to the young and very pretentious man, a boy even, who stood in the middle of the room with a piece of paper.

“A great poet died today, gentlemen! My mother is Russian and she told me who he was, she wept, my friends! Let’s honor the memory of mister Pushkin, and listen to one of the best poems he had written”

“_Oh, dear God, please, let it be the one about Lukomorie and the cat on a tree_”, Crowley thought desperately.

“This one is translated into English, and I liked it very much. It is called…”

_“Please…”_

“Angel and a demon”

_“Ugh, for Satan’s sake!”_

And, to Crowley’s horror, not only the boy started reading the poem, but it caught Aziraphale’s attention immediately.

“At Eden’s gates an angel gentle

His head did bow with lustred hue,

And demon, dark and temperamental,

Above the fires of Hades flew”

… Aziraphale turned his head in his direction.

“The wicked spirit of negation

Upon the other’s pureness gazed

And then a warm, unknown sensation

His conscience now for first time grazed”

… Aziraphale positively STARED at Crowley at the moment.

“ “Forgive me, but I’ve seen you,” said he,

“So shining on me had its worth:

Not everything in heaven displeased me,

Nor did I hate it all on earth.” “

Once the boy was done, Crowley stormed out of the room without saying a word. There was an empty hall down the corridor, and he found himself a place near the window to look out, stress out, and brood properly.

_“Damn it, Crowley, what is it with you and the bad luck, what kind of demon are you if you’re…”_

“Crowley?”, Aziraphale’s voice said behind his back. Crowley turned around.

Aziraphale, of all people, the most beloved and yet the most inappropriate guest there could be.

“What do you want, angel?”

“You practically ran away”

“I didn’t want to hear any more of the dead Russian’s little poems”

“I actually liked the poem, Crowley. And it made me think of you”

Crowley fell silent.

"Why are you so aggressive, Crowley?", Aziraphale asked, stepping closer to him.

"Nonsense. I'm not aggressive. I just don't want to talk of all this Russian travesty", Crowley said, turning away.

"I've never been to Russia. But you have. Many times. You speak Russian, I heard"

"A bit. Not that you need it with their nobility, mind you. They all speak French, perfect French and poor Russian. Pathetic..."

"So you must know what a great poet he was", Aziraphale went on.

"Great fool”, Crowley snapped, angrily. “Getting himself killed by the age of 37, leaving a wife, four children, innumerable bastards, leaving them in debt"

"You sound like you knew him", Aziraphale said once again.

"I didn't. I have friends in Russia. And Russian friends here in London. They told me"

"It is sort of sweet you feel so frustrated about widows and orphans, Crowley. I also have a slight impression you were touched by the poem"

"It's well written. Poor translation, though"

"So, you read it in Russian?"

Aziraphale looked quite amused.

"Once or twice. I told you, I have a business in Russian Empire every now and then"

"Didn't you find it touching, to hear people contemplating the things that took place there in Eden when you and I remember it exactly as it happened?"

That was the ground Crowley had no intention of stepping into.

"I wasn't flying around the gate. You should remember that"

"I remember everything. I wonder how this man got himself an idea that there were an angel and a demon on the gate that very day"

"His nanny probably told him"

Aziraphale didn’t like that last phase, it seemed.

"Why do you need to be so cruelly sarcastic about the dead man?"

"I'm not. He had a nanny who told him stuff, folklore and everything, and he wrote his famous masterpieces all based on that. This crone deserves literary praise as much as he did"

"You knew him", Aziraphale insisted.

"I didn't. I just know Russians. I told you, I know this country. I could tell you of other poets if you'd ever asked"

"Like who?"

"Like Zhukovskiy, for instance. A bastard made a closest friend of the future emperor. He's half Turkish they say” Crowley stepped closer, looking into the angel’s eyes. Outside, the storm was gathering. “Like Lermontov, this one is from Scottish origin. He's now making himself famous now that Pushkin's dead. They call him "Russian Byron", only that one doesn't limp. I give him a few more years, then he'll get himself killed too. Probably in a Pushkin fashion, shot in a duel. Too much talent, too little reason"

"You surprise me, Crowley”, Aziraphale laughed. “One day you scoff at me collecting the books, and now you tell me things of poets in faraway countries, things I'd never learn myself"

"That's because you never ask. Why bother asking old Crowley, huh?", Crowley scoffed sadly.

"I wish I knew you better", Aziraphale said, gazing in his eyes. The rain started getting stronger outside. Crowley saw thunderlight reflecting in the angel's eyes. He reached for this hand. Angel let him take it.

" No, you don't. You'd run away before you truly know me"

"I won't"

"You always do"

"I'm not running away now"

Crowley pulled Aziraphale's hand to his face. Aziraphale could see his eyes glowing underneath his glasses.

"A lone white sail shows for an instant,

Where gleams the sea, an azure streak.

What left it in its homeland distant?

In alien parts what does it seek?

The billow play, the mast bends creaking,

The wind, impatient, moans and sighs...

It is not joy that it is seeking,

Nor is it happiness it flies.

The blue wave dance, they dance and tremble,

The sun's bright ray caress the seas.

And yet for storm it begs, the rebel,

As if in storm lurked calm and peace!"

_(Mikhail Lermontov, author's note)_

Aziraphale looked at Crowley as if he was unfamiliar to him. His lips opened in astonishment.

"These are not yours, Crowley. But you translated them to English"

"Someone did"

"Someone whose name is Crowley. Someone who used to be called Crawly. Someone who tempted the first woman. Someone who's standing in front of me. Someone I barely know, it seems"

Crowley pressed Aziraphale's hand to his lips and kissed it fervently. His lips burned like fire on the angel's fingers. Crowley slowly let go of this hand and looked at him exasperating. Aziraphale was silent and unmoving. Crowley looked down with a sigh, then turned around and walked out of the room. Aziraphale stared at the door as he left, listening to the storm outside. Then thunderlight made the room unbearably beamy.


End file.
